Her mind turned to her own future, the endless trickle of years. Could you come to tea at my rooms one afternoon, or would you dine with me somewhere, and do a theatre? We could have a private room, of course, if you do not wish to be seen about London, and a box at the theatre. " The Wastrel laughed. She was not afraid of violence, but she was afraid of something mean, some secondary kind of force.
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